Hero
by Slinky-and-the-BloodyWands
Summary: Jackson gets what he wants, and what he wants is to be better than all the rest. Before he turns eighteen. Before he meets Tony Stark, his hero. And maybe his father. One-shot, gen (mention of Lydia/Jackson).


Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf or Iron Man.

Author's Notes: Based on the wonderful art by Noctemus and written for the TWreversebang (LJ). While this is a crossover with Iron Man, it focuses mostly on the Teen Wolf universe (specifically Jackson). Spoilers up to the end of season 2 of TW.

* * *

**_Now_**

* * *

"My name is Jackson Whittemore," I say.

The confidence is there, the deep voice of control, and the receptionist on the other end of the line recognizes it, changes her tone with a few extra "sir"s for good measure. But whatever I planned to say next when I decided to make this call, it leaves me.

All the messages I rehearsed in my head, the practiced demands to speak to her boss, are suddenly lost.

I can't do this.

The real Jackson Whittemore would speak up. The real Jackson Whittemore would simply walk through the building's newly restored front doors, acting as if he were heir to the throne. This...hesitation, it's just further proof that I've damaged the older model. At some point, the Jackson Whittemore from Beacon Hills - the one with power - disappeared to the extent that even speaking my own name throws me off.

Fuck. This isn't worth it anymore.

I end the call and stare out ahead of me, at the reflection in the window's glass. No one on this crowded New York City sidewalk seems to notice eyes flash to a bright, unnatural shade of blue. A warning, maybe, that even though I've waited so long, so many years, that maybe I'm still not ready...

I'm not the man I planned to be. I'm not what I wanted Him to meet for the first time. It's not too late to turn away and try to be the person I once was.

* * *

_**Then**_

* * *

When my parents told me I was adopted, I didn't ask any questions. But they kept talking, like they usually do. No, they didn't know anything about my birth parents. But that they were dead. Gone. That was all.

I wanted to know more. But I didn't want to ask. I knew if I wanted it bad enough, I'd get it.

When they tucked me in that night, I didn't say anything to them. Not anything they wanted to hear. And if they noticed what I didn't say anymore, they didn't bring it up.

* * *

Fact: I get what I want.

I figured as much out when I was a kid, and I'd point at whatever was new and expense on the top shelf. And it would be mine. Some would say that makes me spoiled, but it doesn't. Because I understand the value of what I have. I understand what it means to lose it. I understood that even more after my 'parents' told me the truth, that I wasn't theirs.

But that's not the point. The point is, I learned long ago that, in most cases, you don't have to actually ask for something that you know is already yours. If you believe it enough, it'll be given to you.

When I was a kid, I wanted the truth. What I got was a legacy. One that I know is mine because I _believe_.

Before I believed though, before I ever knew there was a connection...I remember watching it re-air, over and over on the news, the revelation leaving me star-eyed as the news broadcasters who were making a fortune on the big reveal: Tony Stark was Iron Man.

"Dad, who's Tony Stark?"

They didn't hear me, too busy discussing the news between themselves.

I was a kid. Stupid. I didn't read the magazine my parents read, didn't know who the charismatic man on the front of them was, just that there were always women, wine, and dollar signs surrounding his face. And now he was a hero, too.

I smiled at the screen. I wanted to be him. I wanted to grow up and be just like Tony Stark.

* * *

When we were fourteen, Danny came out. After he was caught kissing the new kid behind the bleachers, so it wasn't much of a choice for him. I had shrugged it off because it was irrelevant (and because I'd known for over a year), but not everyone had let it go.

I made sure they did. It didn't take much, just a nudge, a threat or two, and the slurs, the shoves, the sneers all disappeared.

Danny didn't have to be asked to help me research my birth parents after that. He didn't mind keeping it a secret either. He said that's what friends do, which how I came to realize that's what he was. My best friend, because I certainly didn't need another.

Danny was worth trusting, even if he didn't come to the same conclusions I did after I read the information he'd dug up. About the Millers. About their work at Stark Industries.

* * *

I would never be a genius, but it didn't take one to get to the top of the class. Even so, after a few botched attempts to rise academically, I realized I probably wouldn't be Valedictorian material. I could stay ahead of the majority, though. I could be just high enough to qualify for a scholarship.

And, there were other ways to rise, with or without my adoptive father's help. I was determined. Determination could get one far, athletically, and, physically, I was close to perfection.

It didn't matter really, if it was because I was a piano player or a chess master or a lacrosse captain...It didn't matter so long as I was perfect at it. So long as I could impress Him, when finally met.

And we would. I didn't ask, didn't have to. I nudged and my 'parents' knew what I wanted to know. Dad had told me, one day on the green at the country club, he'd asked me what kind of car I wanted for my sixteenth birthday and told me what I'd be getting on my eighteenth. An inheridence. An insurance payoff, the most he'd ever told me about my birth parents. I already knew all that, but I pretended it was new information and that it didn't matter.

* * *

I hated fucking McCall.

The one thing. The one thing I didn't have to worry about, the one thing that I should have been able to say without hesitation when... I needed to stay Captain of the team. I needed to be able to say that was part of who I was.

And I needed whatever the hell it was McCall was taking to make him so...so god damned perfect.

* * *

I was wrapped up in the scent of her, the pinch of her nails against my shoulder blades, the way her breath hitched when we finished, the moan of delight that was just loud enough to give me a second wind and just low enough not to wake my parents.

I was wrapped up in Lydia Martin. Which I hated, because it made me weak, having another thread connecting me to this spot on the earth, holding me back from my future. I tried to tell myself she was a tool; if I was going to stay on top, I needed to fill certain expectations, like having the perfect girl on my arm. She was my face, my car, my position on the team, my grades, my checking account: she was another piece that would make me look the part. Make me worthy.

But when she rested against my arm, her hair spilling over my shoulder, we spoke, and I forgot what she was supposed to be.

"So, you think someone killed them."

Her words made ever muscle tense. I hadn't meant to ever tell her about them, about the people who were supposedly my birth parents. About how they died. But Lydia, she was perceptive. She put ever fragment I ever said about them together and asked the right questions, and somehow that led to me telling her one night. I shouldn't have.

I let out a slow breath. "Gordon and Margaret Miller were killed in a car accident."

"But you think someone caused it," Lydia replied. She didn't move, though. Didn't roll over to look my in the face, and I liked that about her. "And you think it's connected to their work at Stark Industries."

I didn't reply, or need to. Lydia did that for me, her voice laced with curiosity as she went on. "Which is why your 'insurance settlement' is coming directly from the company's namesake...It's all hush money. Their work got them killed, and Tony Stark is paying you off to keep it quiet. Do you think that's why he wants to meet you, to tell you what really happened?"

"I don't know." Not exactly true. I knew.

I told myself I knew why it was that I was contractually obligated to meet with Tony Stark after my eighteenth birthday, before I could receive the money. I knew it had nothing to do the company and everything to do with the pictures I'd seen, of Margaret Miller and Tony Stark, standing too close, of the mention of the playboy's habits in the gossip column. The wink-wink mention of the project they were supposed to be working on together. And then there was the paper trail that showed a divorce in the Millers' future, filed for a few months before their death.

I knew the truth, even if I didn't ask my adoptive parents, even if I didn't tell anyone besides Danny, even if I didn't have proof. Every part of who I was made more sense because I knew: I was Tony Stark's son.

* * *

I wasn't who I used to be. Nothing turned out the way I wanted it to.

The bite was supposed to make me someone special. It was supposed to be something I could take with me when I left Beacon Hills, something I could show Tony Stark to prove to him that I was worth acknowledging.

Because that was the point, wasn't it? That's why he wanted to see me before I received the settlement. He wanted to know what kind of man I was. I knew what kind he was; he was everything anyone ever wanted to be. He was rich and brilliant and defiant and didn't let anyone stop him from being the best.

He was my hero.

He wasn't a freak though, and at some point, after waking from the dead, I realized that I'd become exactly that. A freak.

* * *

**_Now_**

* * *

It's hard to breath, and the realization makes a panicked, hysterical laugh burst out from between my lips and sound just like, like freakin' Stilinski or someone. But it's part of me now. I still fake it as well as I ever did, that sense of confidence, and I don't have to fake the coldness. It comes with the package.

But there are no illusions of perfection anymore.

Standing in front of a store window, staring at my reflection, I look the way I did before I died. But I know what's beneath the aesthetically pleasing surface. A killer. A slave.

My fingers curl into fists at my sides, and I slow my pulse the way Derek taught me. The wolf was, probably still is, an asshole, and I've heard that, while I was in London, he even lost his Alpha status, so he isn't exactly someone to be taking life lessons from, but he understands the animal inside me. I'd never tell him I appreciate what he's shown me how to do, but without his advice I know I'd be wild. And dead. Again.

A shutter runs through me, one last act from the trapped wolf, but I'm not calm. The human part of me isn't calm.

"You know, I have this friend, he know some very zen techniques for keeping his cool. Maybe I should introduce you."

I jump, thrown by the sound of the voice. The sidewalk behind me is busy, so I didn't notice someone standing close, watching, but when I open my eyes, I see him there, right beyond my shoulder, dressed in a suit and a pair of sunglasses.

I try to cover the very real shock on my face, find my mask and slide it on, but it's too late, and I'm star-struck.

"Tony Stark," I say, my voice catching. "I..."

"Was supposed to meet me for lunch two months ago?" Tony supplies, a cocky grin on his face. "Yeah, kid. You were. I don't like being stood up, Jackson."

My mouth hangs open slightly and I force it to snap shut. "I was out of the country."

"No you weren't," he answers, his smile brighter when he the startled look on my face. "You were staying in a friend's apartment, not too far from here. Don't look so shocked. I usually keep up with the people I'm about to throw several million dollars at."

I frown and turn it into a sneer. "That money's from the insurance settlement my -"

He cuts me off. "Yeah, sure, whatever, sourpatch. Let's get some lunch, or is your evil plan to starve me to death twice?"

Tony Stark walks away. He doesn't look over his shoulder to make sure I'm following him. He doesn't need to. I'm at his side in seconds.

* * *

"So. You died. How'd that happen?"

I blink at the words. They're the first one he's spoken since sending a light flirt and his order toward the cafe's waitress. I choke into the glass of water at my lips, and blood rushes up to my ears.

"How did you...?" I catch myself, jaw tightening. I'm not an idiot. It wouldn't take Tony Stark two minutes and an internet connection to find a report on my 'accident'. "It was a mistake. The doctors were idiots."

"Sure." Tony takes a sip off his own drink. "Oh, and happy be-lated birthday, zombie boy. Enjoy the right to vote."

"I'm not a zombie," I hiss.

"That's not the hundred or so witnesses say, kid."

And I'm pissed. I don't know why, but I am. I've waited...I've waited so long to be here. To see him in person. To hear what he has to say. And it's a joke to him. I slam my fists down on the table, rattling the glasses and drawing eyes, but Tony doesn't so much as flinch.

"That time of the month?" he asks, brow raised.

And I freeze. Because it is. The full moon is in two days and I'm wired and I should be able to take what he says as a stupid joke, but I know. I know he knows, just from that look in his eyes and the hitch of his pulse beneath the whining device in his chest.

He knows. Tony Stark officially knows everything. And I know nothing.

"Don't run, kid," he says. Asks me. There's a touch of true humility in his eyes, like the joke is over.

I swallow. Hard. And realize that I'm a few inches up off my seat. I lower myself back down, resting one elbow on the arm of the chair, trying to scrape back together the perfect image of Jackson Whittemore.

"How could you possible know that?" I ask, when I've calmed down.

"Me? I didn't. I was busy with the whole saving the world thing. But it turns out certain groups are keeping a sharp eye on Beacon Hills these days, and certain playboy billionaires with awesome suits may be intercepting the gossip." He leans in a bit closer. "But that's talk for another day, isn't it? You've got questions. Shoot."

"Then you...you really know what I am?"

"Uh, no. I don't. Because there's no such thing as what you are, but, hey, not too long back, I would have said the same thing about Norse gods." He rolls his eyes. "And that's not the question you're wanting to ask, kid. You want to know why we're here. You want to know what I have to do with the very large wad of cash coming your way."

I take a breath. "Are you my father?"

Tony blinks. "Huh?"

* * *

Tony Stark is not my father.

I listen for the jump in his heartbeat. It's hard to hear, but it remains steady. Either he's a good liar, or it's the truth, or both.

Gordon and Margaret Miller were engineers at Stark Industries, and they were my parents. On Christmas 1994, at the company party, Margaret Miller announced she was pregnant. In May of 1995, Margaret Miller discovered her husband was selling secrets to another company and asked for a divorce. On June 14th, 1995, while driving home, Margaret told her husband she knew what he was doing and that she'd told Tony Stark. They got into a fight and wrecked. I was born one day later, and my parents were already dead.

I look like my mother. I think I might take after my father.

* * *

On the sidewalk again, I wonder why no one runs up to Tony Stark, asking for his autograph. Why aren't there reporters trailing him? Then again, this city has seen so much of the strange, maybe he's not as big a deal. Or maybe I'm just not seeing whoever might be watching. I didn't see them in Beacon Hills or in London or at Derek's empty apartment, but apparently someone saw me.

I'd have to tell the others, as much as I hated to speak to any of them after all this time. Especially the current Alpha.

I hear paper crinkle and realize I'm holding the folder in my hand a bit too tightly. It's strange, how easy it was for Tony to sign the papers, giving me over the settlement. I can practically hear the voice of David Whittemore in my head, telling me I needed proper legal representation before signing (it's a voice that's easy to ignore).

"Well, you're young, attractive, and rich-er than you were ten minutes ago." Tony clasps my shoulder, walking beside me like we're old friends. As if my head wasn't still spinning. "What are your plans?"

Plenty of college acceptance letters were lining my desk back home, or so my parents let me know. I couldn't remember sending in that many applications, but between them and Lydia, somehow I'd maintained my status as 'responsible student' last year. And interesting feat considering I wasn't in the country.

But I wasn't sure exactly where I was going now.

"What would you say to an internship, here in New York?"

"What could I possible do here?" I ask, frowning. "Aren't there more qualified people?"

Tony shrugs. "Sure. Some of them even from your hometown - we'll have fun going over their applications, won't we? As for you...Well, with such a sunny disposition, I'm sure you'd make a great door greeter." The scowl on my face puts a smile on his. "Or, you could help me try out a few prototypes. I have a feeling you wouldn't mind being tossed around a work room quite as much as the average joe."

"What do I get out of it?"

"Oh, I don't know, free lessons on how to not be a douchebag to everyone you meet." Tony's smirk fades slightly. "A new beginning. Experience tells me that's what most of the recently dead prefer."

"I could have that anywhere."

"Including here."

This time I roll my eyes. "The chance to work with a hero," I add, to the list of perks. It comes out more sarcastically than intended.

Tony laughs. "Maybe the chance to be one."


End file.
